


Black-Throated Wind

by t_fic (topaz), topaz, topaz119 (topaz)



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Case Fic, Crossover, First Time, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-30
Updated: 2006-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's still too much to ask Sam to just <em>go</em>, without the bitching and moaning about Dad and following orders and a million other things that Dean tunes out, but at least this time Sam's only muttering under his breath while he checks out the coordinates, habit more than anything, and even that stops when the location pops up. He lunges for the journal like he knows what he's going to find, and when he looks up, Dean's rolling to his feet before Sam can say a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black-Throated Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by [](http://topaz119.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz119**](http://topaz119.livejournal.com/) and [](http://without-me.livejournal.com/profile)[**without_me**](http://without-me.livejournal.com/) for the [**"All CW All The Time" Kink/Cliche Challenge**](http://estrella30.livejournal.com/293573.html). We ended up using the prompts _bruising in compromising places_ , _biting to leave marks_ , and _enclosed spaces_. If you tilt your head and squint, we might have also managed a passing nod to _masturbating for your partner_.
> 
> Vague spoilers for the first half of S1 of _Supernatural_ and spoilers for the full run of _Angel_.

_What's to be found, racing around,  
You carry your pain wherever you go.  
Full of the blues and trying to lose  
You ain't gonna learn what you don't want to know._

***  
***

It's still too much to ask Sam to just _go_ , without the bitching and moaning about Dad and following orders and a million other things that Dean tunes out, but at least this time Sam's only muttering under his breath while he checks out the coordinates, habit more than anything, and even that stops when the location pops up. He lunges for the journal like he knows what he's going to find, and when he looks up, Dean's rolling to his feet before Sam can say a word.

"Dad thinks it's every twenty-one years," Sam tells him as they stuff clothes into bags and double-check the weapons cache. "Two little kids, like, _little_ , Dean, babies, not even old enough to walk sometimes. They disappear on the same night in May, and if they find the bodies, there's not a mark on them, no fucking reason for them to have died, their hearts just stopped beating."

Savannah's 1100 miles away and they've got two days to get there and Dean just nods and keeps his eyes on the road.

***

The first thing you notice is that the shrieking sounds different. More echo? Less? It takes you a while to realize the part you probably should have gotten first: you're in your body again.

You're face-down on a concrete floor, curled in on yourself, and while you still hurt--you've mostly forgotten not hurting--it's... duller? than usual. Or something.

There are voices around you; yelling, and explosions--gunfire, some part of your brain translates--and you try to make yourself smaller, flatter, eyes squeezed tight _don't notice me don't notice me..._

After a while, things quiet down, and when you realize the low, grunting whimpers you're hearing are you, you bite down hard on your tongue and hold your breath until your head feels like it's going to explode.

It doesn't help, though; the voices are back, and then there's a hand on your shoulder, and your body reacts automatically, coming up swinging--but you've got nothing, and there's more than one of them; a fist connects with the side of your head and you think, _Doesn't hurt as much as the rest of it_ , as you hit the floor again, hard.

***

There are days when Dean wants to take a tire iron to the idiots who play with things they know goddamned good and well they shouldn't touch, but they're too greedy, too hungry for power to stop and think. He'd do it right now, except he's too busy trying to breathe through the stench of sulphur and blood. Sam's probably going crazy outside, what with all the hellfire that's going on in here, but the warding circle's holding, at least so far, and there's not a whole lot Dean can do but watch the body parts fly.

He hopes like hell that splitting up, Sam grabbing the kids while Dean went for the altar--and _God_ , he really hates the ones who plan it out enough to have all the bells and whistles--was the right thing to do, that Sam won't do anything stupid, like try to bust back in here without anything to protect him. Sam knows Dean's been warding since before he could write the alphabet, but for all that Sam keeps trying to ditch this gig, he doesn't seem the least bit convinced that Dean would survive half an hour without his protection.

Dean's phone is vibrating against his hip, and if he had a spare hand he'd grab it, but things are coming a little too close to his protected corner and it's time to throw a couple barrels of rock salt into the mix, hopefully discourage whatever these things are from coming any closer. The shotgun's loud enough that Sam should be able to hear it from outside and hang up and stop bothering him. He doesn't, of course--when has Sam ever let go of _anything_ \--but eventually the fighting and screaming dies down and the choking smoke clears enough for Dean to see the bits and pieces of bodies on the floor. There were three humans when he got there, but he's not really inclined to go count heads. Or anything else.

Dean wishes he could believe that whatever'd done this was satisfied, time to go home, but that would be way too easy. For the moment, he'll settle for "not here anymore." He counts to a hundred once, then does it again, before he steps out of the circle and goes to unlock the door.

"Answer your damn phone," Sam says, and Dean would love to give him shit about the worry in his eyes, but breathing air that isn't fouled by whatever the idiots called up is way more important.

"I was busy," he manages. "Show's over now, though." Sam waits while he coughs his lungs at least a little clearer and then follows him back inside.

"All dead?" Sam asks, and Dean's about to say "Everything that's still here," when he hears a low, muffled whimper. Sam hears it, too; smoothly pumps the shotgun he's carrying. "Rock salt," he murmurs.

Dean pulls the .45 out from where it's been snugged, tight and comforting, at the small of his back, and nods. "Good old-fashioned consecrated lead," he answers, motioning with his head. Sam drops back and away, so they can flank whatever it is, and lets Dean take the lead.

***

When you come to, there's something softer under you, and the noise you hear resolves into music--something you recognize on some level--and the rumble of a car motor. You don't move for a long minute, then slit your eyes open to try to figure out just what the fuck is going on.

You notice that your arms hurt more than the rest of your body-- _your body_ \--and after a while you realize that's because your hands are cuffed behind you, and you're lying on them.

"You stink, you know that, right?"

"I don't know, Sammy; I think I smell pretty damn fine for standing in where you say I did."

Two voices, and a low growl to the engine. _V8_ , slides into your head. _Rebuilt._

"Besides," the second voice continues. "It's not just me; John Doe back there ain't exactly springtime fresh."

Every nerve locks down at that, and you curse the car and the music and the blood pounding in your ears because John Doe, that's you, and even if you don't know a better name, you know you need to know everything about them and you, and the sooner the better.

"You're sure about him?" the first voice asks, his voice dropping lower, and you strain to hear.

"C'mon, dude, you saw it, too." The car turns sharply. "Inside the burn marks, wrong side of the altar; only thing in there except me that didn't end up as biohazard wallpaper."

"Yeah, yeah," and the words come out on a sigh. "I saw; I just--" The car stops and the doors open, the squeak of metal on metal driving straight into your skull, so that you curl into yourself. You manage to bite back the moans until there are hands on your arms, pulling you out of the car, standing you up, holding you up, because your legs don't work and your balance is shot.

"What's the matter, Sam," the second voice asks, close to your ear, and it's his shoulder that's hard under your arm. "You're not up for a visitor from hell?"

***

As truck stops go, this place is pretty primitive, but Dean hasn't caught a blast of sulphur this bad in years, maybe ever. Add that to the blood and the stupid goddamn incense -- patchouli, for Christ's sake, fucking hippies -- and he's not in a picky mood. Any place that lets him get a start on washing the stink out of his skin is fine.

They've got the place to themselves, too early for the overnighters to be stopping, too late for anyone else. Sam sets up by the door, just in case, even though there's no sign anything is after them. Watching the deceptively lazy slouch Sam's perfected, Dean thinks Dad should be proud. He's not, of course, at least not to where he'd say anything about it, but looking at Sam, all anyone sees is worn-out jeans and shaggy hair, nothing but a punk-ass college boy slumming it. Nobody ever looks close enough to see the hard-won muscle under the baggy shirts, and Sam's worked hard to camouflage how fast that slouch can turn into a roundhouse kick, or an elbow to the face. They've definitely come a long way from the days when he was all arms and legs and tripping over his own feet. Dean could still take him down any time he wanted, of course, but he doesn't have any qualms about Sam covering his back.

Dean props their guest against the shower wall and turns the spray on him, hoping the water will bring him around a bit more, but by the time he gets his own clothes off, the guy's curled on the floor again. The fact that a stumbling guy wrapped in nothing but a ratty blanket getting helped to the showers by another guy didn't even raise the cashier's eyebrows leaves Dean wishing he didn't have to touch anything in the entire building, but he figures he shouldn't complain. Heck, he probably didn't even need to take the cuffs off the guy, but he doesn't seem to be much of a threat in any case.

He scrubs himself fast, then gets his hands under the guy's armpits, hauling him back up. Everything is slippery, and this is really a lot closer than he usually gets to naked guys, at least when Sam's in the room. Still, brimstone isn't going to wash off without soap, and their mystery visitor doesn't seem to be any more with it than he was an hour ago. "Little help here, Sammy?" he calls.

Sam's got the curtain pulled aside, knife poised, before Dean even finishes his name.

"Whoa, tiger," Dean says. "Nothing more dangerous here than whatever's growing on the grout. But I could use a hand with our new friend."

Sam grumbles, but he sheathes the knife and pushes his sleeves up, then fastens his hands around the guy's ribs so Dean can wash him clean.

The guy manages to stand on his own--or close to it--around the time they get him out and start toweling him dry. His hair's long, longer than Sam's, and wet, twisted strands flop in his face, covering his eyes. He doesn't try to push them away, but Dean can see him peering out from behind, suspicious, wary.

"Hey," Dean says. "Anyone home?" No answer. "You speak English?" Which, really, Dean's always thought is the stupidest question ever. Is someone gonna answer _no?_

With the way the guy's been needing to be held up, Dean doesn't catch on that the reaching hand isn't for support until it touches his amulet.

" _Meket_ ," the guy says, voice rusty and almost painful to hear, but his eyes are sharp and clear and _blue_ when they flicker up at Dean. " _Meket_ ," he says again.

"Whatever, buddy," Dean answers, stepping back and letting Sam pull the guy away. "Time to get dressed."

***

The building-- _restaurant_ , you think; _diner_ \--is bright and smells of grease and coffee. It feels loud, even though it's mostly empty, and you duck your head as you enter, trying instinctively not to be noticed. Your legs are working better now, but the guys are still on either side of you; you can feel them ready to grab you at any second. Part of you wants to tell them to back off. You keep quiet and slide into the booth they choose; move over so you can lean against the wall.

The one with the _meket_ takes the seat next to you, penning you in, and again you keep your mouth shut. There are two of them, and they're big, and you can barely stand up on your own; you've got nothing to gain by trying to take them on. They haven't done anything bad to you, you remind yourself. Realistically, you're probably a lot safer with them than you would be without them... whoever they are.

The waitress comes over and they order, the taller one glancing at you and saying, "Just scrambled eggs and toast for him. And tea."

"A little too much bachelor party?" she asks knowingly, and you turn your face further away. You're in no shape to fight, but that doesn't mean you like being laughed at.

"Something like that," one of them says.

The waitress is back almost instantly with coffee for them and a mug and metal teapot for you. You remember coffee and think you might be willing to kill something for some, but you take the tea when the taller one pours it for you; hold the mug between your palms, feeling the heat, breathing the steam.

"I hope it doesn't take long for the hospital to find the kids' parents," the taller one says.

"I hope the parents weren't the ones who signed them up for satanic altar duty," Meket replies.

"You don't really think that, do you, Dean?" _Dean_. "I mean, there's never been anything weird about the victims' families, right? Did Dad say something?"

"Nah," Dean says. "You know. Just... getting cynical, I guess."

"Well, let's worry about the shit we know we have to deal with," the other says. "Like, what the hell was it that got away, and..." he nods in your direction, "what do we do with him?"

"Whatever it was that got out, it wasn't corporeal," Dean says, lowering his voice as the waitress comes back with plates heaped with eggs and hash browns and grits and bacon. A smaller plate is set in front of you, and your mouth waters at the smell of the bacon, but you pick up a fork and take a bite of your plain eggs. They're bland and undercooked, and better than anything you've tasted in as long as you can remember, so you eat quietly and hungrily, sipping your tea, and listen to the two of them talk.

"What would make one thing come back as a spirit and another in a body?" Dean asks, and the other one shakes his head.

"I dunno. When we get to the motel, I'll poke around online, see if I can find anything. Maybe... one had more power than the other?" He looks at you, speculative, and you keep your face blank, passive.

"If he's got more power than whatever it is those jokers were calling, he's doing a hell of a job hiding it," Dean says. "But you're the psychic-boy, Sammy, you tell me."

Sammy--that's right, you remember that from earlier--sighs. "One of these days, I'm gonna figure out how to, I don't know, Dean. Make you spill your beer on every girl you try to pick up, or something."

You don't have to look; you can _feel_ Dean tense up. "That's not funny, Sam."

"Well, quit with the psychic-boy shit, all right? I... I don't know. He doesn't seem like anything to me, anything weird. I mean, aside from the whole naked-by-the-black-altar thing."

"That's weird enough," Dean says. "He wasn't in the room when I drew the circle; he came from somewhere. So he must be related to this whole thing somehow."

"Frankly, I'm more worried about where the spirit went," Sam says. "That felt... nasty. It didn't come all that near me, but... I don't think it's just going to go away."

"I don't, either," Dean says. "I'll take another look at Dad's journal. Maybe there's something in there I missed."

They've been talking about you like you're not even there, and you've been doing your best to pretend that's true--not that here isn't about a trillion times better than where you were, but you don't really feel ready to talk, let alone try to explain anything, so quiet seems like the best choice. A minute later, though, quiet suddenly stops being an option.

They both look at you, startled, when you shove at Dean's side, desperately trying to get out of the booth. "What--" Sam says, and Dean is solid and hard to get past, but your gut is twisting and if you don't get out of here fast--

You make it--barely--to the blacktop outside before you fall to your knees, retching up eggs and tea and then, when that's gone, gout after gout of acidic bile until you start to think maybe this whole thing is just another version of hell, a hot shower and the smell of coffee to bring the suffering back into sharper focus. You can taste brimstone in the back of your throat when the spasms finally subside, and the shirt and pants you're wearing are clammy with sweat.

There's a hand near your face, offering a bottle of water. You rinse and spit, again and again, and let them pull you back to your feet, back to the car, where you curl up and close your eyes, pressing the cool bottle to your face, while the engine growls to life and the car lurches out of the lot.

***

Sam has that pissy look. Dean knows without looking, he can tell from the way Sam's leg is practically vibrating with energy.

"What?" he asks, without taking his eyes off the road.

"He's gonna need some clothes," Sam says.

"Oh, no," Dean says. "No shopping. He's fine."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Cause explaining that he's the hung-over groom when he's wearing sweats you've had since Clinton was in office isn't going to get old fast. But sure, fine. It's not my stuff he's freeballing in."

" _Hell_ ," Dean mutters, but there's a Wal-Mart just ahead. Sam doesn't even pretend not to smirk.

"Fine," Dean says, pulling into a parking space. "Knock yourself out, Sammy. Me and JD'll chill here."

"JD?"

"John Doe? Jack Daniels? I can't keep calling him 'hey you' in my head, and _John_ 's a little on the weird side, don't you think?" Sam snorts at that. "Just, c'mon, I'm beat. Go get him some stuff, and some food for later while you're at it, and let's find a place to crash."

Sam shakes his head and gets out of the car, but leans back in to say, "Call me if you need anything." He cuts his eyes to the back seat and really, he needs to stop with the overprotective shit, especially when what he's worried about is currently a scenic greenish-gray lump curled into a corner of the seat. Dean's not even sure if he's conscious.

"Dude, the only thing I'm gonna need is a six of something that isn't any of your micro-brew crap, and food to go with it. For when I wake up, which in case you haven't noticed, I haven't gone to sleep yet, because somebody is standing in the parking lot of a fucking Wal-Mart telling me stuff I knew when he was in diapers. Weird shit happens, I will call. Go."

"Ass," Sam mutters, but he slams the door and sets off across the parking lot with the freakishly long stride that drives Dean nuts.

***

You come awake easier this time, no jolt, no slam of fear, but it still takes a while to figure out where you are, where you're not. There's a bed under you, and you vaguely remember being helped inside. It's dark and cool, the only light coming from the computer in front of Sam. The other one--Dean--is asleep; you hear his breath, deep and even, but he's not in your line of sight and you're not ready to move yet, not ready to let them know you're there.

You'd stay like that forever, you think, but your throat is dry and your mouth is foul from throwing up and it's a pitiably small irritation, nothing in the big picture, but you can't get it out of your mind.

As soon as you move, Sam's on his feet and crossing the room. He keeps his distance, though, holding out a bottle of water, letting you reach out and take it from him.

"Slow," he says, low and quiet. "Easy." You want to gulp, to drain it in a single breath, but your stomach cramps a little just at the thought, and you force yourself to sip.

He watches you quietly while you drink, and you wish he'd stop but wishing's never done you much good. You're not sure how you know that when you still have no clue what your name ever was, but there it is.

"I've been doing some research," he says when you put the bottle down, his voice still quiet. He looks at you, a silent _You with me?_ , and you think about playing dumb, but that doesn't seem like a good long-term bet. You nod, and he continues, "Trying to trace who owns the warehouse where this all went down last night." He taps a leather-bound book with one finger, muttering, "Because writing down anything other than an address is too much effort for some people..."

He stops there, and after a moment you clear your throat. "Find anything?"

He blinks, like he's surprised at your question, which, given the sum total of your interaction so far, isn't that much of an insult. "Nothing useful--one dummy corporation piled on the next. I guess the one thing I'm pretty sure of is that whoever does own it doesn't want to be found."

"That's an answer right there," you say, forcing your throat and mouth to work, taking pleasure in being heard and understood. "If their lawyers know their stuff, you won't be able to trace it. Especially if they had... help."

He looks more closely at you. "What do you mean, _help_?"

You think a moment. You're probably as startled as he is--if not more so--at what you said, but there's a woman's voice in your head, acid-sweet as she tells someone, _Regardless of the evidence, the jury won't convict you._ "Who are you?" you ask.

Even in the dim light, you can see his eyebrows go up. "I could ask you the same thing."

You chuckle, low and unamused. "You can ask all you want."

"You don't know?"

He sounds skeptical, and you don't blame him. "You can believe me or not, your choice," you say. Your voice still feels rusty, but it's coming back fast. You hope other stuff will, too. "Not much I can do about it." You pause. "Just like, you can tell me whatever kind of story you want about who you are... but, y'know, pick something you can stick to, I guess. Unless... I mean, I'm presuming if I just walked out that door right now, you'd have a problem with that."

Sam tilts his head. "To be honest, I'm not sure you _could_ walk out the door. You want to try it?"

He has a point. You're not exactly in fighting shape. And while these guys may not be your best buddies, right now they seem a lot better than the alternative. "Not really," you say, and he cracks half a smile.

"My brother's calling you JD," he says. "That okay until you come up with something better?"

"Works for me," you say. _Brother_ , you think, and file that one away for later. "Guy could do worse than be named after Jack Daniel's."

Sam does laugh at that, still soft and quiet, eyes flickering to the other bed, where Dean's stretched out on his belly, dead to the world, but when he turns back to you, he's focused again. "What you said before, in the shower. _Meket_. When I got sick of going around in circles on the land title, I did a little other looking around. In ancient Egyptian... that's what you meant, right? What Dean wears. Protection."

You nod.

"How'd you know that? I mean, yeah, that's what it is, but nobody I know's ever called it by that name. You're not... you sure don't look Egyptian."

You bark at that, only once before Sam's frown--boy could be a librarian, maybe--quiets you down. "No, I'm pretty sure not," you say. "I..." Trying to think, trying to remember. Trying to decide what to say regardless of what you know or don't know. "I must have studied, sometime."

"Studied Egyptian protective amulets?"

You shrug. "You don't have a problem with me being here--" _visitor from hell_ , you hear Dean say, "but you're surprised I took an art history class in college?" You don't think that's where you pulled it from, and from Sam's expression he doesn't either, but he doesn't argue.

"You might as well get some more rest," he says. "Dean's probably not gonna be up for a while yet, and I haven't quite given up on beating my head against those damn records."

More rest sounds like a great idea--just lying on a bed, with nothing assaulting you, body or mind, is honestly more than you can grasp yet. "You don't sleep?" you ask, as you settle back down on your side, facing him and the other bed. You don't really think he's suddenly going to come after you, but you don't turn your back on people; you just don't.

"Not a lot," he says softly, waking up the laptop, and you watch him for a few minutes before your eyes slide shut again.

***

"Tell me again why I'm trying to parallel park on streets that were definitely not built for this car," Dean says, angling hard to the right, cutting the steering wheel back with inches to spare and easing off the gas.

The neighborhood, at least the street they're on, is right on the edge of big money coming in. For every house that's been restored, there are still three or four that are working on falling down around their owners, but even if the funds for repairs are lacking, the houses have the air of being cared for.

"Because we got nothing on the warehouse, except we're five layers down and whoever actually owns it really doesn't want to be found." Sam pauses and then says quietly, "And because twenty-one years ago, two little girls, cousins, were playing outside Saint Ann's, that church we passed a couple of blocks back, and when their grandmother came out to take them home, they were gone."

His voice is flat and unemotional, which means he's trying to pretend this one isn't doing a number on him. Dean's willing to play along for now, but that doesn't mean he won't get up in Sam's face about it if he needs to.

Dean cuts the engine, and Sam opens his door and gets out. Dean looks over his shoulder at where JD's staring out the window. He could be taking in the scenery or, hell, plotting world domination with as little as that poker face lets on. "C'mon, man, let's roll." No answer. Dean knows he heard the guy talking to Sam in the hotel room--he's never going to sleep deep when there's a stranger around--but apparently, Dean only rates a silent nod and a long steady look from behind the hair. Whatever.

Sam's a block away by the time they get out of the car, and oh, yeah, he's on a mission, already in the churchyard before they can catch up, in front of a moss-covered statue, talking to someone small and white-haired. Dean recognizes the set to Sam's shoulders. Nobody can resist that earnest, intent look, mostly because even when Dean knows Sam's working a scam, that look's always the real deal.

Dean holds up on the sidewalk until Sam glances over with the cue to push open the low iron gate and walk into the small courtyard.

"Miss Evelyn, this is my brother, Dean, and our friend, JD." Sam has to lean down and his voice is pitched louder than usual, but the eyes that peer up at Dean are crackling with life and the smile aimed his way is sharp and knowing. Dean looks as trustworthy and above-board as he can, which is pretty much wasted on the old girl, because she's got his number, he can just tell.

"We'd like to know more about Corinna and Isabel," Sam says, and her eyes go distant, seeing into her memories as she turns back to touch the statue, two small angels with their arms wrapped around each other.

"Oh, it was a bad, bad day, that day. We sat right here, Louisa and I, and everbody walked up and they couldn't even say it. They all just looked at me and shook their heads. The preacher we had then, he was a good man, but he wasn't from here, he didn't know. He kept organizin' folk, sending them out to knock on people's doors, calling the police, wanting them to drag the river, wanting them to do _something_ , but Louisa knew, I could feel it how she held my hand."

Sam guides her to a bench and she fumbles in her purse before pulling out a small handkerchief, faded and yellowed with age.

"We stayed until the sun came up and then Louisa went home and laid herself down on her bed and that's where she stayed until they brought her back here for good."

Sam takes her hand, and Dean wants to shake his head. Sam can't keep on like this; he can't keep taking everything personally. These kids, Sam was in diapers when they were taken, he _can't_ feel guilty about not being able to bring them back.

"You said you knew?" Sam says, gently, and Dean breathes a little easier. Sam might care too much, but he almost always remembers why he's there, what's really important. "What did you know?"

"Oh, those babies weren't never coming back. Sometimes," she says, and the shift in her voice is an awful thing to hear, "sometimes, their people might find the bodies, poor things, but we never did, not with Louisa's grandbabies."

She smiles at Sam and pats his hand. "After Louisa was gone, we had a fish fry and raised the money for the statue, and I come sit here every day and talk to her. She was my daddy's favorite cousin, you know."

"No, ma'am," Sam answers. "I didn't know that."

"Miss Evie, you okay?" And they're done for the day, Dean knows, no matter how many questions are still in Sam's eyes, because while the older of the two guys who just walked out of the church might be wearing a jacket and white collar, both of them are pinging Dean's linebacker radar. As in big, fast, and no sense pissing them off. Yet.

"I'm fine, just fine. You boys worry more than your mamas ever did," she answers, sharp and crisp, but her smile is fond. Sam thanks her for her time and she pats his hand again, her voice sliding back through the years when she says, very softly, "Nothing you can do when he comes for his babies."

She takes the younger guy's arm and lets him lead her back inside the church, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder.

"We're not going to be seeing you anymore, are we?" the minister says, and it's not so much a question as an order. "The last thing Miss Evie needs is outsiders coming and stirring things up just because they're curious. She's a good woman, but she's going on near ninety and she's lonely for someone to listen to her. She loves to spin stories, always has. That's all this is."

Sam opens his mouth--of _course_ he does, he never knows when to quit--but Dean cuts him off. "We're good," Dean says, and gets Sam out the gate.

***

"C'mon, Dean," Sam hisses, just loud enough for you to hear him through the noise and music of the dive bar Dean picked for dinner. "You don't really believe what he was trying to tell us--"

"No, Sam," Dean says, the exaggerated patience in his voice obviously jacking Sam up yet another notch. "Like I said, I know a pretty cover story just as well as you do, but dude, you gotta let it go every now and then." Sam smacks his beer onto the gouged and pitted wooden table. "Or not."

Dean shrugs and flags down the waitress, and this time, when she turns to you, you say quickly, "Burger and fries. And a beer." It's nearly dark outside, and your stomach's been making noises that are a lot more "lemme at it" than "no fucking way."

Dean looks at you for a long moment, but only says, "Do us all a favor and don't puke in my car," before turning back to Sam.

They seem to be mostly taking you for granted now, talking to each other about what they learned today--which was not a whole lot, as far as you can tell--without any obvious attempt at keeping you out of it, though Sam does shoot you an occasional sharp glance the few times you offer an idea. For the most part you're just as happy to keep quiet, working your way slowly through your food and now and then allowing yourself a small sip off a Budweiser that tastes awfully close to heaven.

They argue their way through their own meals and beers, Dean sliding back and forth between theories about various malevolent entities and ogling everyone in the place under thirty. Male or female, as far as you can tell, and that's interesting, but not half as interesting as the way Sam's mouth tenses up and he strong-arms the conversation back to business every time Dean elevator-eyes a guy standing at the bar or making his way toward the pool table in the side room. At first you think Sam just doesn't like having a fag for a big brother, but after a little while the cues start pointing another way. Not homophobic--protective. Or... possessive.

You're pretty sure Sam's got nothing to worry about; as far as you can tell, Dean doesn't have the kind of death wish that would go along with seriously trying to pick up a guy in an unfamiliar bar in the South. Not that you'd bet against him pulling it off if he really wanted to; his smile is compelling enough that you find yourself wondering if he's entirely human. It doesn't feel like a glamour--though a cynical voice in the back of your head reminds you that you wouldn't be able to feel a good one anyway, and fuck, where is this shit _coming_ from? You know Sam--and Dean, maybe to a slightly lesser extent--is still wondering who and what you are. What you hope they don't entirely realize is that you're wondering the same damn thing.

The burger sits better than you were afraid it might, though you regretfully decide against killing the remaining half of your beer when they get up to go. Back at the motel, Dean and Sam have some kind of silent pissing match over who's going to go to sleep. You'd go with "both of them," but you don't get a vote. In the end, Dean plants himself at the small table, laptop in front of him, and simply ignores Sam until Sam gives up and stretches out on one of the beds.

If you can't have the privacy of them both being asleep, you wouldn't mind some more rest yourself, but you get up from where you're sitting, move to stand behind Dean and look over his shoulder at the screen. He gives you a narrow-eyed glance, but then goes back to his searches. Legends, ghost stories, reports of unexplained deaths. Your fingers itch to take over the computer, put different keywords in and see what comes up, but you keep quiet, watching, and then when he seems to have forgotten you're there, you stretch, yawning, and head leisurely to the small bathroom.

You never would have thought pissing would make the list of life's great pleasures, much less brushing your teeth, but maybe it really is the little things. You splash some water on your face, and blink at the sudden vague sense-memory of not being able to do this--not being able to do it _right_ , anyway, and that's just weird, but there's nothing more connected to it, so you shrug and head back into the bedroom, face still wet, drying your hands on the cheap new jeans that were waiting for you this morning.

Sure enough, you can feel Dean's eyes on you as you cross close to him, heading for the empty bed. You shuck the jeans and T-shirt off; slide into bed in briefs and a 'beater. "Shout if you need anything," you drawl, and grin to yourself when there's a long pause before you hear the keyboard clicking again. You still have no clue who you are--or why you're here--or how long this reprieve is going to last, but you might as well have some fun while you're hanging around.

***

It's a good night. Which is to say, Sam sleeps for two solid hours before the whimpering starts.

Dean moves to sit on the edge of the bed. "'sokay, Sammy," he whispers. "Just a dream. You're okay." Sometimes that works. It does this time, at least for a while. But less than half an hour later, Sam's moving again, turning his head from side to side, breathing like something's chasing him. "Sam," Dean says, a little louder, but it's not until Dean puts a hand on him, firm on his shoulder, that Sam jerks awake, a yell not quite spilling from his mouth.

"Shh," Dean says, but Sam's expression tells him he won't be going back to sleep soon. Dean sighs. "Bad?"

Sam shrugs, swallows, and Dean stretches, reaches the water bottle on the table by the laptop and hands it over. He glances at the other bed. JD hasn't moved; is still curled on his side, breathing regular. His skin is pale and smooth, soft-looking. "Fire?" Dean asks, turning back to Sam.

"Yeah."

Dean grits his teeth. God knows there's nothing he can do to fix that. He pats Sam's shoulder awkwardly, then puts his hand on his own thigh, running his thumbnail along the weave of the denim. "So, any new ideas about him?" He nods toward the other bed.

Sam turns and looks, as if watching the guy sleep is going to tell him something new. "Not really," he says. "He's smart, obviously--even if he's telling the truth about not remembering who he is. He knows how to research; that could be a library background, or law, or, hell, anyone who knows his way around computers."

"Not our job to figure that stuff out for him," Dean says. "All I'm worried about is whether we need to be watching our backs."

Sam shrugs. "Probably not any more than we usually do." Which isn't exactly a ringing endorsement, but is pretty much what Dean's been thinking. "I mean, we can't just cut him loose, not 'til we know more about what's going on, so we're pretty much stuck with him. But it's strange... the way he just, y'know, accepts all of this. What we do. Like it's perfectly normal."

"Well, he _was_ \--as far as we know--in hell. That probably kind of ups your tolerance for weird shit."

"Yeah," Sam says. "But it's more than that, I think. I just can't figure out what."

"You think he was... a hunter, like us?" Dean frowns. He knows they're not the only ones who do what they do, but still, the idea doesn't feel right.

Sam shakes his head. "Maybe. He doesn't have the same--I don't know, he doesn't seem like a hunter. But then, he says he doesn't even remember his name; maybe he'll get more of his, whatever, personality back when he remembers more."

Dean frowns, thinking about the little show JD put on as he went to bed. It was intentional, he's certain of that; he knows a challenge when he sees one. "I think he's got the personality thing covered."

Sam yawns and stretches, and Dean stands up. "You think you can get a little more sleep?" It's still pitch-black out; won't be dawn for a few hours yet. "You should try..."

"Yeah, thanks, Dean; I'm not _three_ anymore."

Dean smiles tightly, turning away. "Then don't act like it. We've got a lot of diggin' to do tomorrow; you need to be awake for it. Unless you think JD can do a better job."

Sam sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Same applies to you. I slept enough. You can take a shift."

Dean shakes his head. "Fine. You want to stay up all night, be my guest." It kills him, sometimes, how Sam can _not_ just shut up and be reasonable. He lies down on the bed, not even bothering to take his boots off, and closes his eyes.

"It was easier before," he hears Sam whisper. "When I didn't really remember what she looked like."

Oh. Dean doesn't say anything; there's nothing he _can_ say. Sam doesn't need to know that he dreams, too. He definitely doesn't need to know that in Dean's dreams, when he yells, "Mom, no!" the body on the ceiling changes, and then it's Sam up there staring down at him, screaming soundlessly. Every time.

***

"Hey, Dean?"

Sam's voice jolts you awake--he waves an apologetic hand in your direction while he fumbles for the remote, but you don't have much to complain about, even if the anonymous mouth in your dream _had_ been just about to make all the teasing worthwhile. You'll take minor disappointments over screaming hell, every time.

"Dean!" Sam calls again, simultaneously turning up the volume on the TV, shifting the laptop to the side, and reaching for the journal they never let out of their sight. You'd pay attention to whatever's got Sam's interest, but then the bathroom door opens and Dean's standing there in unbuttoned jeans and not much else, hair still wet from the shower.

"Yo, morning glory," he says, around the toothbrush he's got hanging out of his mouth. "Dial it down a couple of notches, okay?" He's talking to Sam, but if you'd doubted his interest from the night before--not that you had, not really--the quick, flickering glance thrown toward you, the casually deliberate lean against the door, the way he licks toothpaste off the corner of his mouth tell you the game is on.

Sam rolls his eyes and points to the takeout coffee on the dresser. "Listen," he says. The morning news team is using their serious voices as the camera pans past a brick townhouse, in a part of the city that's very much not where you are or have been, a part where there are trees dripping Spanish moss and historical preservation markers on the walls.

"The victims, all siblings, were found in their beds, with no signs of robbery or forced entry at any of their homes. The Savannah Police Department has issued a statement that the investigation is just beginning, but there is no indication that the household staffs are under suspicion. Sources close to the family say no suicide notes or evidence of drugs or alcohol were found near the bodies. A memorial service is being planned later this week to celebrate the lives of Walter Barrow, Aldridge Barrow, and Susannah Barrow DeWitt."

"Yeah?" Dean asks. "So?"

"So, no real reason for the deaths--their hearts just stopped. Just like the kids."

"But these aren't kids, Sam." The words are short, but not insulting, more like he's looking for holes than trying to be obnoxious. Sam's flipping through the journal, nodding absently.

"Yeah, I know, that doesn't fit, but... the kids, the ones we took out of that warehouse, they were brother and sister, and the ones Miss Evelyn told us about, they were cousins, and the way they died... and Aldridge Barrow, that name, I know I know it." Sam looks up from the journal. "Aldridge Barrow, c'mon, how do I know that name?"

"President of Wilkinson Group," you say, as the name clicks in your brain, and you'd really like to know how you can remember something you saw once on a computer screen and not have a fucking clue who you are. "Three, four layers down on that warehouse." Sam's fingers are already flying on the keyboard. Dean's lost the toothbrush and he's moved so he can lean over Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, pointing to the screen. He starts to say more, but the drone of platitudes coming from the TV about the many charitable endeavors the deceased were a part of is replaced by a sharper tone.

"Last night's tragedy is compounded by the rumored disappearance of family patriarch Morton Barrow and his sons, Gregory and Thomas. Executives at Bargreen Corp, the real estate and holding company owned by generations of Barrows, had no comment, but sources close to the family have confirmed that none of the men have been seen for several days."

"How many people were in that warehouse with you?" Sam twists around to look at Dean.

"Three, to start." Dean shrugs. "Too many pieces to count by the end."

"And we've got three missing guys here, and three others dead in the same family last night."

"My three guys, we sure as hell can count on foul play being the cause of death," Dean says.

"Too coincidental," you say, and from the way both of them blink at you, you're pretty sure they'd forgotten you were in the room.

Dean shrugs. "Three guys missing, three guys in the warehouse... weird, but it's a big city. Weird shit happens."

You shrug back. "Not a nice neat trail, no, but... you got people dying and little brother over there has a bad feeling. Worth playing his hunch, at least. But you're never going to get anywhere with the family, not today. Too much happening there, too many layers of security to get through."

"Wouldn't be the first funeral we've crashed," Dean says.

"I'm just saying, you need a plan," you answer, not backing off the challenge.

"Dean," Sam's saying, either oblivious to the staring match going on over his head, or just ignoring it. "That's half the equation; the kids are the other half, and Dad's journal probably isn't complete." Dean groans and Sam looks up from his laptop. "Sorry, man, but yeah, we need a library."

"Beats the hell out of dealing with the grieving family," you say.

Dean snorts, but says, "Fine. Let's go find a librarian to sweet-talk."

***

Dean votes for the closest library, but Sam insists that they drive across the city to a particular branch, because, as he says to the woman behind the reference desk, this one has a collection of local historical documents that meets their unique research needs. Dean nods and tries to look excited when she shows him where the copies of county death records are stored on microfiche.

He hits pay dirt when he checks for the 21-year thing and fills in all the cycles Dad's journal had been missing, and more. With what he gets, they have deaths or disappearances on or around May 18 every twenty-one years, going back before the Civil War. Even better--or worse, depending how you look at it--a couple of the ones he's been able to fill in, it's easy to tell they're related.

Sam looks at the list, at first nodding absently as he skims it but then reaching for the legal pad he's been making notes on since Dad sent them off. "Here." He points to a name on Dean's list. "In the 60s, the kid who died would have been the missing guy's brother."

"Cursed family?" JD asks, from across the table.

"This one's listed as natural causes, but..." Dean shrugs.

"There goes that cynicism again." JD leans back in the chair, stretching, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders, not quite smirking at Dean, and really, no one should look that good in an outfit from Wal-Mart.

"The family's tied up in it some way," Sam says, and Dean drags his attention back to his brother. "I know there's a connection I'm just not seeing."

"I got faith in you, Sammy," Dean says, slapping him on the back. "I'm just gonna go--"

"Don't move, Dean," Sam says, not bothering to look up from his notes. JD snickers, but when Dean eyes him, he's writing busily.

"C'mon, man," Dean says. "One coffee isn't gonna hurt anything."

"Not unless it turns into, 'Aw, Sam, c'mon, you should've seen the legs on the cashier,' which it always somehow does," Sam says.

Dean grins. "She did have great legs, Sammy, almost as long as yours, and, dude, _flexible_..."

Sam shakes his head. "Look, I'm drowning in names and dates here; can you sort them out, see how they go together?"

Dean grumbles and groans, but compared to squinting at the microfiche, deciphering Sam's scrawl is a cakewalk, so he takes the chair next to JD and settles in for the long haul.

***

Given how the two of them rag on each other, you're shocked at how well they coordinate at the library. Not that Dean's exactly calm, but he works his way through the endless pages of notes Sam generates with far less bitching than you'd have expected, and when Sam catches the next break, a series of newspaper articles from the mid-70s, it's Dean who sees how they fit in and sends Sam off to sweet-talk the reference librarian into access to some of the older newspapers.

You skim the articles, coverage of a suit filed on behalf of several elderly members of St. Ann's AME church who wanted to be buried in a family plot at Bonaventure cemetery, and you don't even have to look to know the name. The reporter was too chickenshit--or scared--to spell things out, but it doesn't take much reading between the lines to fill in the gaps.

"Family plot, but only for family members of the right color," you mutter, and Dean snorts.

"I kinda like the 'It's only for legitimate descendants' argument myself."

You find yourself thinking that counsel for the family was damn pathetic--and while it's nice to know things like that, a name would be even more exciting--but they managed to prevail. Between that and how every reporter and editor tap-danced their way around saying things straight up, you get that there was a whole lot of money involved, old money, and the power that goes with it. You wonder if Dean's figured that out yet, but before you can ask, Sam comes back with a fistful of photocopies and the look that you've learned means he's on to something.

"Look at this," he says to Dean, and then, surprisingly, waves you over as he spreads the papers out on the table.

"Okay, what am I looking at?" Dean asks, and you're glad, because the print is old and not very clear and Sam doesn't have whole articles, just the pertinent pages. Nothing makes sense, which Sam must have figured out, because he doesn't bitch, just launches right into it.

"It's stuff from the Morning News, going back to 1868, and it's all about how Josiah Barrow built his empire and how he always looked out for his family, and how his sons and grandsons still feel his presence guiding them in their business decisions." He points to another, less blurry, photocopy. "They all talk about him, even now. He's this big presence; they just named a street after him."

"So? The dude casts a long shadow," Dean says, shrugging.

"Look at his birthday," Sam answers flatly. "May 18. And Miss Evie, she said, 'he' comes for his babies." Sam screws his face up. "They're his, all right, they're all his descendants, and he comes for them every generation."

Dean nods slowly, looks at the paper spread out over the table and says what you're thinking. "He doesn't just come for them, Sam. They call him. Those stupid fuckers bring the kids and call him." Dean wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, as though there's something nasty lingering there, and you have to stop yourself from doing the same, because it's only been two days, and you can still taste the sulphur and blood and bile.

"But not this time," Sam says, with a savage satisfaction.

"Not this time," Dean answers, and the look that passes between them is somewhere between grim and smug. "The guys trying to run the show at the warehouse were pretty much useless, though. They didn't have any idea what they were doing..."

"Didn't follow directions," you say. "Got sloppy. Careless. Shit like this, you gotta make sure every T is crossed, but people are stupid..."

Sam gives you a look, but Dean just says, "So, we got a name... we got a cemetery?"

Sam smiles back, slow and nasty. "Absolutely."

"Winchester Brothers Salt and Burn, the reunion tour."

"Absolutely," Sam repeats, and starts gathering his papers up into a tidy stack.

Dean's practically vibrating with energy in the car, like a racehorse waiting for the starting gun. The cemetery's easy enough to find, which is good, except that the reason it's so easy is that it's a featured stop on the historic city tours that are an industry in and of themselves.

"Ghost tours?" Dean says. "They're _serious_?"

"Keep it in mind for retirement," you say, and smile at the nasty look Dean throws at you. The library truce quickly evaporates into round after round of bickering, though there are a few moments of relative peace and quiet when they stop at a gas station and Sam goes in to buy drinks and snacks. It starts right up again as soon as he gets back to the car, though. Apparently the wrong flavor Twizzlers is enough to amp Dean up, and Sam spilling a few drops of Coke in the car sends him over the edge. You sit quietly until Dean's worked up a good head of steam, and then say, "You guys ever consider charging a cover for this floor show you've got going? Might be able to afford better accommodations," and that gets you another glare but also shuts him up the rest of the way back to the motel.

Safely in the room, Sam takes a quick shower, emerging from the bathroom and frowning when he sees Dean sitting at the table, laptop open in front of him. "I was gonna--" he starts, but Dean shakes his head.

"You, sleep," he says, pointing to the bed. "We can't do any more until tonight. I'll keep chasing down whatever else I can find about these guys."

"I'm not tired," Sam tries, but Dean cuts him off again.

"Bullshit. I know sleeping's no fun for you right now, but we're screwed if you're keeling over when something's coming at us." It's hardly the most gracious statement in the world, but it's offered with a blunt honesty, and after a moment Sam shrugs and gives in.

"If you get stuck, say something," he says. "I probably won't be asleep anyway."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but when you finish up your own shower--talk about simple pleasures--a little while later, the laptop's sitting on the table, screensaver flickering in the dim light while Sam snores steadily and Dean... Dean's methodically cleaning weapons.

You watch his hands for a few minutes before clearing your throat. "Done with the research?" you ask quietly, voice pitched to barely carry over the soft shush of knife on whetstone.

He glances up a fraction of a second before turning his attention back to the blade. His shrug is almost imperceptible. "This needs to be done, too," he murmurs.

You drop the bathroom stuff Sam got for you on the bed and glance at the top few pages of notes. Dean's reined in the adrenaline, at least enough that you don't expect him to start bouncing off the walls, but he's still restless and you're catching it, too.

"You can turn the TV on," he says. "It's like white noise; Sam'll sleep through it."

"Nah," you answer. "I'm good; I'm just..."

"Ready to roll?"

"Yeah, I guess." You shrug. "You mind if I take a look at the research?"

"Probably couldn't hurt," he says. "But seriously, whatever Sam says about me and my car? He's ten times worse about that laptop."

"So what you're telling me is that the prima donna bullshit is genetic?" you ask, settling yourself at the table. You get that look, the one that says he'd be just as happy if you'd never arrived on the scene, but after a second he goes back to his work.

You rest your fingers on the keys, looking at what's on the screen and written on the note pad beside it, but when you start typing, instead of tracking the details of the lawsuit, you find yourself paying more attention to the lawyers' names, and the judges. The case was appealed all the way up to the Georgia Supreme Court, and you make your way from there to Martindale-Hubbell, looking at the firms the judges were affiliated with, before or after their time on the bench. You scribble down notes about Bouhan, Searcy, Simpson & Mahoney, and then you find yourself staring at the page for Lee, Black & Hart. There's a new face in your mind, a man, distinguished and urbane, smiling and unctuous. He's talking to you, eyes gleaming with a false paternity, but you can't hear his words.

It's not much but it's _something_ and you keep your mind as blank as possible, because every time you try to force it, the door slams shut and you have to start all over. You're holding yourself still, barely breathing, when the unmistakable noise of a bullet being chambered sends you flying. You're crouching behind the chair before you even realize you've moved.

 _Shit, shit._ Your heart's trying to jump out of your chest and Dean's looking at you with a raised eyebrow. You'd be embarrassed, ashamed of being seen cowering like this, but you can still see it--still _feel_ it. A familiar face, inhuman but trusted... right up until the bullets drilled into your chest, pain and anger and humiliation followed by more, and more, and more.

"Whoa," Dean says. "Didn't mean to startle you."

You manage to get yourself up again, back to staring at the computer, though you don't even try to put your fingers on the keys. Luckily, you went quiet in your panic, so Sam's still sleeping, and Dean waits a few minutes before deliberately putting the gun down and reaching into the cheap styrofoam cooler for a couple of beers.

"Here," he says, casually, handing you one. "Take the edge off before we start playing with fire." Part of you--a big part--wants to rip him a new one for treating you like you're some pathetic nut case, but you still feel a little sick from the reaction, so you nod and take the beer and keep your mouth shut.

***

Setting evil shit on fire and watching it burn is one of Dean's favorite things about this gig. But between having to wait all day to even start scoping the place out and the low-level tension of having a stranger around, he's jittering like a junkie before they even get a match lit.

The tomb is open, the salt poured, when they hear voices outside. Sam peers out quickly, then turns back to whisper, "I think it's a groundskeeper. Stay here and keep quiet; I'll get rid of him."

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Sam's already slipped outside, and Dean knows without having to look that he's moving away from the building, drawing attention elsewhere before turning on his flashlight and calling an appropriately sheepish hello to the hopefully gullible worker.

"I thought he said he'd checked on the security setup," JD mutters, low enough that Dean can't righteously tell him to shut up, but loud enough that he meant to be heard and Dean for damn sure hadn't missed the attitude during the two hours it had taken JD to shake off whatever the hell had spooked him that afternoon.

"Nothing's ever foolproof," Dean growls back. Griping about Sam's screw-ups is _his_ job, no one else's, and it's seriously pissing him off that he can't see or hear what Sam's doing out there. How Sam's doing.

"There's foolproof, and then there's amateur hour."

There's next to no light, but the voice is right next to him, easy enough to place the guy by body heat alone, and Dean wheels on him, fisting handfuls of his shirt. "Given where you were a few days ago, I'd think a death wish wouldn't really be the top of your list right now," he hisses, and then there's a thigh between his and a hot mouth biting at his lips and fuck, _fuck_ , his body's responding, grinding forward, battling for control of the kiss before his brain can even begin to wonder where this all came from.

He can't be doing this; he needs to stop it, _now_ , Sam's outside and Dean needs to be paying attention in case he needs backup, but he can't pull away, can't make his fingers stop twisting hard in JD's hair. He listens with one ear for Sam even as he's swallowing JD's groan, pulling their bodies tight together and rubbing and grabbing and licking and tasting, sucking hard and desperate on any patch of skin he can get his mouth on. Zero to sixty in no time at all; JD's strong and solid and clearly just as hungry as Dean is, and there's an ache behind Dean's balls that raises the hair on his neck, makes his mouth water. "Fuck, fuck," JD's breathing, and Dean thinks they're probably throwing enough sparks to light the bones without any need for a match. It's been so long, too damn long, and he can taste copper in his mouth and he doesn't know if it's his blood or JD's, and really, who the fuck cares. The scrape of a boot-sole on the stone floor; a muffled grunt as Dean backs JD against the wall, thrusting against him, teeth on stubbled skin, salt and _man_ in his mouth; there's no time for this and everything's quiet outside and it feels so fucking good--

He's thisclose to hitting his knees, when he hears quick footsteps. "Dean! Dean, are you okay?" Sam's voice, still low, but urgent. "What's going on in there?"

Dean shoves JD away, stumbling back a little himself, and wipes his hand over his mouth, trying to calm his breathing. "Just making sure everything's ready, Sammy," he says. "You take care of the guard?" and he can see JD's eyes glint before he turns away as Sam slips back into the enclosed space with them, the tension in the air shuddering and breaking like a soap bubble in the face of Sam's flashlight.

"It was just some kids," Sam answers, pouring gasoline over the bones. "Pretty easy to get rid of."

It takes Dean three tries to get the rags lit, but he doesn't think Sam notices.

***

Same shit, different day, except this time you have a face and brown eyes to go along with the mouth in your dream, and Dean's wearing a 'beater while he leans against the wall and frowns at the TV. Today's talking heads are different--Sam must have picked a different channel--but they wear the same professionally concerned/personally avid expressions as they describe the latest unexplained deaths among Savannah's social elite. "This tragedy takes place while the Barrow family is still reeling from the sudden deaths of three of its members only a day earlier." Captioned head shots, each face unremarkably self-satisfied, flash on the screen. "Detective Williams of the SPD says no link has been found between the deaths, but they are pursuing all avenues of investigation."

Sam shuts the TV off. "Not all of them," he mutters.

You snort. "Well, you boys took care of that real good, didn't you?" It's a nasty crack and you know it, even before Dean pins you with a glare. "Sorry," you offer, but hell, you could tell last night went too easy, and these guys should have known it too. On the other hand, wasn't like you'd had any better suggestions at the time.

You haven't got a lot now, either, but between the three of you, you're sure you've pretty much covered everything that's available online, which leaves the stuff that never makes it online. "I think it's time for us to see if we can sweet-talk that security team into letting us have tea and cookies with Miss Evelyn again."

You didn't expect an argument from Sam; he hadn't wanted to leave the first time. Dean looks sour, mostly because it was your suggestion, but he keeps his mouth shut until he's actually parking the Impala on the street by the modest house Sam had directed them to.

"Not good," Dean mutters, waving at the cars lining the street. "It's a weekday morning; people should be at work or school."

Sam leads the way up the walk anyhow, but you're not surprised, none of you are, when the minister answers the door and keeps him on the outside of it. "I don't know what you wanted with Miss Evie," he says soberly, looking past Sam to include you and Dean, "but she's gone now, and I suggest you leave her family and friends in peace."

Sam, with his earnest face, gets a few more sentences out of him before you nod and head back to the car. "Passed in her sleep," the man says. "Peaceful, from the look of her, and gone to her reward, but that doesn't mean she won't be missed."

"In her sleep," Sam's saying bitterly as he sags into his seat. "Dammit."

"This wasn't your fault," Dean tells him, sounding like he's said the words more times than he'd like. "She was old, Sam. This might not have anything to do with any of the rest of it."

"She was old. She wasn't _sick_ ," Sam says. "No, this... it's the same thing, I know it is. She was related--the little girls from St. Ann's, they were family. And really, Dean, even if this isn't the same thing, three more people died last night and that _is_."

"Burning the bones should have worked, if it was just a ghost," you say. "Which means, this is more than a ghost." You're putting it together as you say the words, little things fitting together, and you think you should have seen it sooner. "What they called. Maybe it started out that way, but they've been feeding it for generations."

Sam's right behind you--or maybe in front. "Every time they gave it another kid, it got stronger. And not just any kid, but flesh of its flesh..."

Dean nods. "The whole ceremony they were going through at the warehouse, it was a binding spell, or it was supposed to be."

"So they kept it bound," Sam says. "Whatever it is, every time before, they called it, it got its sacrifice and that was that. But this time..."

"This time, they sent in the second string without enough practice time," Dean says, finishing the thought. "They were the first course and now whatever Josiah's turned into is out on the town."

"Raising hell," you say. The three of you stare at each other, and then Dean starts the car.

"Okay, so we stop it. Now, before it goes after any more kids or old ladies or ladies who lunch," he says.

Sam rubs his eyes and says, "Exorcism?"

"On what?" you ask. "Whatever Josiah's become, he could be anywhere, and this might not be LA," you hesitate a split second, "but it's still a damn big city."

"So we make him an offer he can't refuse," Dean says, shrugging. "Summon him ourselves, then slap a binding spell on him and toss his ass back to where it came from."

You doubt it's going to be that simple, but there's not much else you can think of, so you shrug back and listen as Sam starts throwing out possibilities.

***

Dean lets the geeks fight it out over which spell and what material object will attract old Josiah the most. Dean would have voted for the black altar--if there's one thing a spirit, any spirit, likes it's ritual and predictability--but seeing as how it hadn't survived the last summoning, he doesn't have much to contribute to the conversation.

They settle on the ashes of his bones as a focus, which means Dean's fighting for a parking space outside the old cemetery and they're having to smuggle weapons in past all the tourists in broad daylight, but they're all on the same page: Josiah isn't getting another night to go out and party.

The mausoleum is quiet and peaceful in its corner plot; the tourists are staying out closer to the main gate and the ghost tours like to wait until dusk. It doesn't look as though anyone's found where they got into the mausoleum the night before, and Dean's starting to breathe a little easier when JD suddenly stumbles off the path and pukes his guts out behind a tree.

"Sam," Dean says, grabbing JD under the arm and pulling him back toward the small building, because he can feel it, too; that sick, cold shimmer in the air, like the warehouse. "I'm thinking our buddy decided not to wait on an invitation."

"Yeah." Sam turns back to help steady JD. "Yeah, I can feel him, like when he blew past me at the warehouse. Nastier now, though," he says, shaking his head, and the hell with the tourists. Dean reaches for his shotgun.

"Let's go; I need to get inside again, closer to the ashes," Sam says, right as the air behind him shimmers and folds.

Even in the hazy afternoon sunlight, Dean can see the figure taking shape. He loads and aims automatically, yelling for Sam to get down, but JD's already moving, kicking out and knocking Sam's legs from under him, the two of them crashing to the ground. Dean fires both barrels into the not-quite-solid face that's smirking at them.

"Shit," Sam says, untangling himself from JD and standing, reaching down unselfconsciously to give him a hand up. "That was a little closer than I like to cut things."

"New problem," JD says, pointing. He's still kind of green, but he looks fairly stable. "I think he's got some buddies with him." Dean looks to where the air is folding in on itself.

"He's got a posse?" Sam says, in that particular tone of pissy annoyance that's always driven Dad nuts, but sounds like home to Dean.

"Ah, _hell_ ," Dean swears, because nothing can ever be simple, can it? Sam grabs for Dad's journal, flipping through pages and cursing under his breath. Dean upends the shotgun and uses its stock to start drawing a warding circle. He smacks Sam on the hip as he moves to the second point; Sam shifts over without looking up, centering himself automatically, and JD steps up next to him without hesitation.

"How long is that gonna buy us?" JD asks, eyes tracking Dean's movements.

Sam looks up. "Caleb's wards?" he says, more a statement than a question, because of course Dean went with the hard-core stuff; they're on the wrong side of stacked odds. "As long as we can stand here," he says to JD, before asking Dean, "We can fire out, right?"

"Yeah, but there are people all over this place. How long before they call the cops or wander over to see what the noise is about and..."

"Fresh meat," JD says. "Delivery in thirty minutes or your order's free? You guys are every demon's wet dream."

"Right," Sam says, going back to the journal. "Got it."

"So, uh, what are we going to do about it?" JD says, and Dean would love to answer but he's pretty sure that ball's in Sam's court. It's quiet, almost oppressively still, and wherever Dean looks, the air's bending and twisting. The wards will hold, but they can't stay here forever and Dean's drawing a big blank on getting through this without any more casualties.

"Okay," Sam says slowly. "I knew I'd seen something in here..." He looks up and his eyes are uncertain. "Dad never tried it and he doesn't have much good to say about where he got it from, but it's, like, a mass undirected exorcism. You just throw it out there and it's supposed to take everything back to hell."

"Everything?" JD asks, and his face is suddenly even paler, though he's still using that calm, dry tone that makes Dean want to smack him.

"Huh." Sam hesitates a long moment before saying, "I don't know. I don't know if you count, and, if you do, if being inside the circle will make a difference. Hell, I don't know if it won't just grab everything here, including us. Dad has some... unreliable sources, and if _he's_ not sure, that's a whole extra layer of I don't know."

"You may be able to imagine how delighted I am to hear that," JD says, his smile tight. "Well, I guess we'll find out." He glances around like he's saying goodbye, and when his eyes meet Dean's, Dean has to grit his teeth and fight the urge to look away. Half the time he wouldn't mind sending JD and his smart mouth back to hell himself, but the guy's standing next to him, warm and tense, and if he hadn't connected some of the dots they might not even have gotten this far this fast--and given the shape he was in when he first popped in, hell must be... pretty hellish. Still, it's not like they've got a lot of other good options. Or any other options, period.

"There's nothing else in the journal?" Dean asks. Sam shakes his head and Dean bites back the 'check it again' that wants to come out, because he knows that look; if there was anything even close, Sam would be pulling it out. He looks over to where JD's standing, eyes sweeping over the almost-substantial shadows. "You keep coming up with all kinds of shit out of the blue--any bright ideas?"

JD glances back and Dean knows the feel of him, solid and warm and alive against his skin. JD frowns, rubs his face, and turns to Sam. "The exorcism you've got there, what's the relevant part? You know, after you get through the introductory bullshit."

Sam holds the journal out, pointing, and the two of them start muttering back and forth, having what seem to be abbreviated debates over the meanings of certain words. Somehow, it doesn't surprise Dean that JD corrects Sam's pronunciation a couple of times, growling something about tone and inflection and hick accents that has Sam making a face, but, hey, they need all the help they can get. Dean's pretty sure Dad wouldn't have written anything down that he wasn't at least marginally confident about, but like Sam said, Dad knows some total wack jobs. Can't be too careful.

They also can't take too long. Dean watches until the shimmers start looking a little too ominous, and then nudges Sam. "Hey! It's time to get this show on the road." Sam looks annoyed, but his eyes work just as well as Dean's, at least when he gets them out of the journal. "So, what are we looking at here, brain trust? Does it open a portal or is there just a big sucking whoosh? Is this," he toes the circle, careful not to smudge the line, "gonna do us any good, or should we all hold hands and sing _Kum-ba-yah_?"

Sam shrugs, looking at JD.

"Do it," JD says to Sam, but his eyes are on Dean. "I might have known something better, once, but..." He shakes his head. "Do it."

Sam looks at Dean until Dean nods, and then takes a deep breath and turns back to the journal. Dean moves closer to Sam, as if that's going to help, and then, after a second, reaches over and hands Sam's shotgun to JD. "Can't hurt," he says, and JD nods, mouth twisting up in a wry half-smile.

"Hang on," Sam says, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "Here we go," and mother _fuck_ , the last time they did this sucked because it was on a plane, but this is seriously not fun either. Between the noise, like nails on the world's biggest chalkboard, and the smell--rotting flesh and more of the ever-popular sulphur--and the way the temperature is bouncing from freezing to sweltering, this is really not making Dean's top ten list. Give him a nice, clean beheading any day of the week. It's working, though, at least he thinks it is. The thing about exorcisms is that one wrong word can blow the whole thing out of the water, and the bad guys know that better than anyone; the closer you get to finishing, the nastier they get about stopping you.

So far, Caleb's living up to his rep. The wards are holding, but it's getting to where Dean's not entirely sure breathing is a good thing, and he can feel the energy crackling around them, everything centered on Sam, coming _from_ him. JD yells at Dean, _watch it, watch it_ , right as Sam's knees buckle and he goes down hard. Dean goes down with him, arm around his waist, and Sam's panting and gasping, but still gritting out the Latin and Dean thinks they're gonna be okay until Sam leans a little too far forward and one of those paws of his rubs over the rune that anchors the eastern point on the circle.

"Fuck," Dean snarls, getting the shotgun up just in time to take out the thing that's going for Sam's throat. Sam hesitates, stumbles over the next word, and Dean knows a split-second of helplessness before JD drops down next to Sam, Latin spilling fast and sure from his mouth. Sam's voice echoes him, gaining strength and certainty, and that leaves it to Dean to lay down the covering fire.

He's not going to have much time to reload, so every damn shot needs to count, but that's not a problem; this is what he does, who he _is_ , and it's calm and quiet inside his head. He aims and fires, aims and fires, reaches for where JD dropped the second shotgun and empties it, too, and suddenly it's done.

Sam's flat on his back on the ground and JD's sitting next to him, head down and breathing hard, but the sun's out and the air's so still Dean can see the dust hanging in it.

"Fuck," Sam says, rubbing his face.

"You okay?" Dean doesn't see anything bad-wrong, but that doesn't mean he's not missing something under the fifty layers Sam would wear, swear to God, in Miami in July.

"Yeah." Sam waves vaguely. "That was..."

Dean grunts, because, well, yeah.

"JD?" Sam says, sitting up. "You good?"

JD doesn't look up and his voice is barely loud enough to hear when he answers. "I'm here."

Sam looks up at Dean, like Dean's supposed to be able to translate that. Dean shrugs, rolling his shoulders to loosen them, and looks around for the duffel. Sam kicks it over to him and Dean quickly stuffs everything inside, incriminating shit in the false bottom. It's almost nice here now that the air's cleared, trees bright green, and flowers every which way, but sooner or later someone's going to come see what all the noise was about and Dean would like to be someplace else when that happens.

"C'mon, boys," he says. "Miller time."

He pulls Sam to his feet, steadying him before offering his hand to where JD's still sitting in the dirt. JD looks at it curiously, as though he's not quite sure of what he's seeing, and then his hand is smacking into Dean's, hard and sure, and he grins as he stands up.

"Best idea I've heard yet," he says, and Sam laughs.

"God, don't tell him that; he's got a big enough head as it is."

Dean shoves Sam in the general direction of the back gate. "Little boys with bad attitudes don't get to drink with the grown-ups, Sammy."

Sam smirks back over his shoulder. "If the grown-ups are drinking Miller, I'm not seeing that as much of a loss. Also, who are you calling little?" Dean watches him carefully; all BS aside, Sam's not quite steady on his feet.

"Sloppy incantation," JD says, quietly, right by Dean's ear. "It pulled way too much energy from him. Nothing a couple of pounds of steak and fifteen hours of sleep won't cure."

Dean cuts his eyes at him. "Dude," he says. "Your brain is one weird place."

JD shrugs. "And yours isn't?"

"Point," Dean says, shouldering the duffel and following Sam.

***

Dean shoves enough food down Sam's throat to kill a horse, but what's really slowing Sam down is the exhaustion you can see written deep in his eyes. Not all of it's from the cemetery, but there was a hell of a lot of stuff crackling around, most of it coming from Sam. The fact that, as far as you can tell, he has no idea what's going on surely isn't helping any.

"I could feel him," Sam says while you wait for the waitress to finish shaking her ass for Dean and bring the check. "At the end, right before we got everything closed off."

"Yeah?" Dean leans back and smiles across the room at the waitress. "What'd he feel like?"

"Hate," Sam says. "Hate and fury and pride, all twisted up with taking care of what was his."

"Swell guy," Dean says. "Glad we could get rid of him." The waitress is all smiles and cleavage, but Dean's paying more attention to how Sam's wavering, like he's wishing he could put his head down on the table; Dean's smile is more automatic than appreciative when she slips him her number. Sam sprawls out in the front seat on the way back to the motel, but manages to stumble inside on his own, tipping forward onto the closest bed and smacking Dean's hands away as they try to peel off a layer or two of clothing.

"Dean, man, c'mon, just leave me alone," he slurs. "'m tired."

"Yeah, Sam, I got that when you nearly went face-first into your fries." Dean pokes and prods and nags until Sam's shoes are in the corner.

"Go _away_ ," Sam says, leaning up on his elbows and squinting at Dean. "For real. You're fucking wired and I can't, I can't not see you." Dean stills at that, and Sam rubs a hand over his face. "Just, gimme a knife and salt the door and _go_ , I don't care, hustle a pool game or get laid or whatever, just not _here_. I feel like when I was fourteen and that chick who played with power touched me and I couldn't move for a week. I need to sleep and I can't with you right here on top of me."

Dean looks at him for a long couple of seconds and then pushes him back down on the mattress. "Long-legged freak," he says, dragging sheets up over Sam.

"Midget," Sam mumbles. " _Dwarf_ midget. _Pygmy_ dwarf midget."

"Whatever, Sammy; I can still kick your ass." Dean flicks him in the forehead and Sam makes a sleepy annoyed sound as he turns out the light beside the bed.

It's warm outside, just this side of steamy, the cracked concrete still radiating heat from the sun. You saw the knife Dean slipped under Sam's pillow; you're not surprised when he props the door open with a foot to pour a thick line of salt across the sill. He's unapologetic when he catches you watching him, and you get the message that he takes care of his own loud and clear.

He shuts the door carefully and stands looking at it for a minute before he turns toward you.

"You coming?" he asks, and you'd make the obvious crack, but then you get a good look at his face, his eyes, and the words die in your throat. He doesn't look back once you nod, just turns and walks down the sidewalk. Pool, Sam had suggested first, but if Dean's picking Door #2, you're not going to argue. He stops four rooms down, fumbling with the lock long enough that you can catch up, press close behind him as he gets the door open and then it's like it was in the mausoleum, skin and teeth and hard, hard muscle slamming you into the wall.

He has a thing for collarbones, but the jolt that arcs through you when he bites down on the bruises he left on you last night is proof enough that you don't have a problem with it. You'll return the favor, but later, because right now, you're definitely liking the way he's grinding into you as you dig your hands into his hips.

"What do you do?" he rasps, teeth moving up your neck to sink into the fleshy part of your ear, and you want to laugh, because, fuck, _so_ not the time to be not knowing shit about who you are.

"What do you want?" you reply, and that must be the right answer, or at least a good one, because he laughs, short and sharp, and there's a thigh between your legs and teeth on the curve of your jaw.

"I want to get fucked," he growls. "Want a cock up my ass, hard and fast."

You get your hands into his hair, too short but if you try you can twist your fingers in it and pull tight, until he backs off your jaw and you get a little of your own back, biting into that lower lip until copper, hot and metallic, blooms in your mouth. "I can do that," you say.

His tongue slides along the cut you opened on his lip, over the blood you left behind. "Good," he says, wiping the rest of it with the back of his hand, and it's invitation and challenge all at the same time. You push him back, enough that you can step away from the wall, and he goes willingly enough, but the cocky-as-shit grin tells you you're gonna be working for every last thing tonight.

He lets you push him back once more, but only because his hand twists in the front of the thin cotton shirt you're wearing and pulls you along with him, momentum carrying both of you the three steps it takes to crash down onto the bed. You let yourself fall, let him take your full weight and use the split-second he takes to recover to work your hand between your bodies, grinding down hard between his legs.

His breath hisses in and the way his hips move under you makes the blood pound in your veins.

"Pretty slut," you say, squeezing roughly, more than you even intended, but _fuck_ , that mouth, red and swollen and still painted with a drop of blood.

"Look who's talking," he says, half-laughing, half-groaning, getting one leg wrapped around your waist and it's your turn to groan. "Too many clothes," he pants.

"Yeah," you agree, because you're sure as hell not going to argue with anything that gets his skin on yours, but you're still working his dick and you don't see any reason to stop that party either. "Do something about that."

His eyes promise payback, but his hands are tearing at buttons and zippers, and the way they move low on your belly is worth ten times the hassle. Getting to wrap your fist around his dick, feel its heat and weight on the skin of your palm instead of through the heavy cotton of his jeans is pretty fucking good, too; the way every muscle tenses against you when you start jerking him for real is better.

This--how to set a rhythm that's not quite fast enough, how to stroke just hard enough to tease, the way to rub your thumb rough and careless over the head of his dick--you remember just fine. He likes it hard and nasty; you like the way his hips twist up and push his dick into your hand.

"Shit," he hisses through gritted teeth, fingers digging hard into your ass, and you back off some because no way is this ending this damn fast. He lets go of you, too, and you're left staring at each other, still half-dressed and the blood pounding through your veins, until he leans up and meets you halfway for a kiss that's long and hard, that settles the heat deep in your bones and ends with his teeth under your jaw.

You're both breathing heavily when you ease back, pulling off your shirt and shoving your jeans down over your hips. He rolls off the bed with an easy grace and bends down to pull his boots off, digging in the front pocket of his jeans as he straightens up. He doesn't quite meet your eyes as he drops a strip of condoms on the bed. You catch the flash of a switchblade as he leaves his T-shirt and jeans on the floor next to the boots, standing naked except for the amulet, and that's about it for your patience.

You wrap your hand around your own cock, squeezing tight, then stroking. His eyes follow every move, and you like that. You like that a lot, so you grin slowly and lean back a little, push up into your hand, let him see how you shiver as your thumb slides over the head.

"Fucking cocktease," he growls.

"No tease," you drawl, smiling.

"Better not be," he answers, and you have to force yourself to breathe slow and even as he stalks across the room, but nothing can stop you from gasping when he drops to his knees and flicks his tongue across the head of your cock. "Been wanting to do this since last night," he says, right before he knocks your hand out of his way and starts working your cock with that pretty, pretty mouth.

"Yeah," you moan. "Oh, fuck, yeah, you look so fucking good on your knees."

Your hands fist tight in his hair again, holding him right where you want him, right where your cock kisses the back of his throat every time you thrust into that mouth. He doesn't like being held down, fights it, but he's the one who hit his knees and he's moaning now and you think having to take it is punching buttons he doesn't want to admit he has. You push it as long as you can, until you have to stop, have to yank his head back, lose the hot and wet because you're not gonna miss the chance to fuck him into next week.

You keep one hand in his hair, pull him up so you can taste yourself on him, bite down and reopen the cut on his lip.

His mouth is swollen and used, lips pulled back in a snarl as soon as you let him go and fuck, you're playing with fire, walking a thin, thin line between hotter than hot and just plain stupid, because he could put you through a wall if he wanted and you're not quite sure why he hasn't already.

"Bed or floor?" His voice is just as used as his mouth, the hoarse whisper rasping over your nerves, curling deep in your belly, and you can't wait to hear it when your cock's buried in him.

"Right there," you answer, pushing two fingers in his mouth. His tongue curls around them, licking and sucking and it's almost enough to make you stop and go back to fucking his mouth. Almost. He shifts around when you pull them out, moving back and turning so you can slide to your knees behind him.

"You look good this way, too," you murmur in his ear, pushing both fingers hard inside him, and you were right, his voice is going to fucking kill you. He rocks back onto you, fucking himself on your hand until you're both groaning.

Condom, spit, pre-come and you're slamming into him, hissing, "Fuck, so tight." He shudders under you, bucking and twisting against where your hands are digging into his hips, holding them high, exactly how you want them. "How long's it been since you gave it up, Dean? Did you do it like this, on your hands and knees like a whore, lifting your ass and begging for it?"

He tightens around you, pushing back, meeting every thrust with a growl and the hell with control, with coherent thought, the hell with anything that's not your dick fucking into that hot, tight ass, your hand wrapped tight around his cock, too hard, too tight, too rough, skin and sweat and muscle sliding under your hands. His voice eggs you on, _C'mon, c'mon, fucking do it, harder, fuck me, dammit_ , and you hang on long enough that the words fall apart into growls and low animal sounds, hot and wet and slick coating your hand, and when you come, you can't tell your voice from his.

Dean stays like that, head and shoulders down, long back stretched out in front of you even after your heart settles and you ease out of him, sitting back on your heels to deal with the condom. You can't resist the line of his spine, your thumbs sliding slow and careful over each dip and curve. His breath, easy and steady when your hands are on his back, catches a little as soon as you let your fingers trace the red marks they'd left on his hips. That tiny hitch sparks from nerve to nerve in your body but then he's up and walking away, long legs, tight ass and your fingers still feel his warmth.

He stops with one knee on the bed and looks back over his shoulder, the bruises you've left on his neck vivid and bright. "That all you got?" he says, mouth twisted up in a half-smile, and seriously, you can't remember who you are, but you're not an _invalid_ , of course you're not done.

He pushes you down on your back, not ungently, and this kiss is less desperate but just as thorough. You stretch out under him, and it's maybe almost too much, the low-quality mattress still a palpable pleasure, and Dean's weight and heat pressing you down, so you can feel every inch of your own body, flesh and bone and God, God, you're _still here_. You groan against his mouth, shifting, arching for friction, for touch, for _more_ , and he bites at the corner of your mouth, then your chin, moving down, hands sliding down your arms to hold you splayed, willingly helpless as he maps your throat, the line of your collarbone, sucks and chews on your nipples, by then aching and hard, and whatever's going on in his head, you're grateful for it.

When he shifts lower, grinding on your leg as his mouth works your abs and his tongue teases and traces your navel before fucking in sharp and hard, you think maybe it's time for you to get involved in this, not just lie there like a buffet platter. But your attempt to move, to slide over, maybe put your own mouth to work, gets you a hiss and a sharp bite on the hip. "Stay," he growls, and you could take offense, but that seems like a poor choice, so you let him get back to what he's doing so incredibly well.

After a bit you can't keep quiet, and he doesn't seem to have any objection, so you give a little bit back that way at least, muttering a low accompaniment to his mouth on your dick, on your balls, whispering, "Fuck, fuck, yeah, Jesus, fuck that's good..." as he takes you down, tastes you, flicks his wet, pointed tongue over what seems like every screaming nerve in your body.

You think you know where he's going with this; the control side of it, the way he's winding you up, getting you to where you'd say yes to anything, and really, there's nothing in you that's thinking it'd want to say no anyhow. When he leans down and grabs the lube from where you'd left it on the floor earlier, you shift your legs open, no argument. But then he kneels up and swings one leg over your hips, straddling you, and you nearly swallow your tongue when he slicks up his fingers and reaches behind him, muscles flexing as he rocks down on himself, eyes steady on yours.

He rolls a condom onto you, which is a good thing since you're pretty sure your motor control went when your brain leaked out your ears just now, and then he's sinking onto you, holy Christ, just as tight as before, maybe even more, because of the position, and he's fucking himself on you and the look on his face would be enough to set your blood on fire, even without the smooth-hot perfection of him around you, taking you, greedy and giving all at once, and now when you put your hands on his hips, squeezing, he doesn't object, just lets his eyes fall half-shut and his head sink back, riding you like a wave, and you wish this could last forever but you're pretty sure it can't.

You move one hand to his cock, stroking and twisting, and he moans, his hips moving faster, and you bite your lip, wanting this, wanting to see his face when he comes, wanting to feel him spasm around you before you give in to what you can feel waiting, hovering, close and closer. "Yeah," he breathes, and you slide your thumb over the head, watching what makes him gasp, what makes his body shudder, his rhythm stutter. He's not exactly a hard sell, and you give him everything you can, but it's not until you reach up with your other hand, scraping your nails down his chest and belly while your other fist keeps pumping him, that he arches forward and comes, shooting hot over your skin, clenching tight on your dick, and the sound he makes is more than a sigh and less than a word.

Your hips buck up hard, once and again and again, and when you come, it's a tide that builds and builds, a low, humming intensity twisting higher and tighter until you can't think or see or breathe.

This time, it's you who shudders afterward, his thumb ghosting over your collarbone, the barest of touches; his weight still warm and solid on you. When he finally rolls off the bed, moving with something less than his usual grace, the smile that curves your mouth is self-satisfied and complacent.

"Smug bastard," he says, when he comes back from the bathroom. He drops a washcloth next to you and really, you don't see any need to argue the point. There's no rush now, no hurry, only a lazy, easy calm that's settled over you both. Without thinking, you reach up and touch the amulet he wears, let your thumb stroke over it, warm from his skin, and feel the low, distant buzz of power, muted after millennia, but still there.

"You know this," he says, wrapping his hand around yours, sliding his fingers along the surface with you, "but you don't know your name?"

"Who you are is nothing," you answer. "What protects you is everything." You see the questions in his eyes, and lean up to cover his mouth with your own, push your tongue alongside his, stop whatever he might say, because you don't know anything more true than the feel of his breath sighing into your own.

***

Looking at Sam sprawled out on his back, taking up every available inch of space on the lumpy mattress that's passing for a bed, Dean's glad he went to the effort of opening the door as quietly as possible. And yeah, he's not totally unselfish in being glad Sam's sleeping--sneaking in with his boots in one hand is way too close to high school to think about--but mostly it _is_ that he hates watching Sam jerk awake sweating and panting, and knowing there's nothing he can do about it.

He drops his boots and jacket and makes it to the bathroom without Sam so much as moving, and deliberately doesn't look in the mirror as he strips off the rest of his clothes. Crappy beds aside, this place at least has decent water pressure and enough hot water to get a start on working through the night's aches.

It's not as easy to ignore all the shit that's bouncing through his head as it was to not look in the mirror, but he gives it his best shot, because all that happened was sex. Really excellent, come-until-you-see-stars, catch-your-breath-and-do-it-again sex, but just sex. Sam might be working the abstinence vibe, but that's never been Dean's thing. Just because it was the first time with a guy in... a long time... doesn't have to mean anything.

The water starts to cool; he turns the hot all the way off and finishes with an icy blast that drives everything but the heart-stopping cold from his brain. The towels are tiny and so threadbare they're nearly transparent, but they catch at least some of the water. He wraps one around his waist and reaches for the toothpaste.

The room's still dark when he eases the bathroom door open, but he only gets three steps toward his duffel before Sam says, his voice heavy with sleep, "Dean?" and the light on the bedside table comes on. Dean's nailed his fair share of pick-ups with Sam around--they have their own little routine of Sam giving him shit the morning after--but this is different, somehow. Sam's eyes move over him, dark and unreadable, and Dean can almost feel them as they flicker over every mark JD left on him.

"Yeah, Sam; duh," Dean reaches for his most flip tone, the one that's guaranteed to piss Sam off, no matter what. "You were expecting someone else?"

Sam's quiet, long enough to start to weird Dean out, and when he answers, he only says, "You okay?"

Dean wants to brush it off, but there's genuine concern in Sam's voice and he can't make himself ignore it. "Yeah, man," he says, quietly. "I'm fine." He finds a T-shirt and clean boxers and crawls into the other bed, the sheets cool against his skin.

"'kay," Sam says and turns out the light. Dean lies in the dark and listens to him breathe for a long time before he finally falls asleep.

***

You know it when he leaves, pulls on his clothes and quietly eases out the door. There doesn't seem to be anything important to say, so you keep your mouth shut, and you even grab a couple of hours' sleep before you roll over sometime around gray o'clock and figure it's time to roll. You reek of sex--of Dean--so you chance a lightning-quick shower before pulling on last night's clothes and peering out the window to check on activity in the parking lot.

Well, that'd be good news and bad news all at once, you figure, pulling the door open and stepping outside. The parking lot is as quiet as you'd hoped, as you'd pretty much expected this early, but Sam's leaning against the Impala, a paper coffee cup set on the hood next to him. Back at the cemetery, you were on the same team, and honestly, you like the guy fine, but you suspect what's coming next won't be quite so collegial.

You nod at him, taking the few steps to bring you close enough to talk without making a commotion.

"Going somewhere?"

You pitch your voice low. "We didn't exactly stop at the front desk last night to rent the room. So I figured an early checkout was a good idea."

You wouldn't have thought his lips could flatten further than they already were. You can almost hear his teeth grinding. "Have a good night?" he asks, eyes focused on your neck where you can feel the bruises, hot and livid.

You smile, because hell, he's got inches and pounds on you, but you damn sure did have a good night, and if this is the price, well, you've paid worse. "Good's just the beginning of it," you say, stretching partly to see his eyes narrow and partly because you want to feel it, savor every ache and scratch, weary and _alive_. "You're up early yourself. Trouble sleepin' again?"

"I slept fine," he says, and you wait, silent, to see what's coming next. "What's your plan?" he asks after a moment. "Dean and I, we'll be headed out later today; you got an idea where you're going? Somewhere we can drop you off?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Which is it? You afraid I'm ditchin' out too soon, or you want to give me a ticket to wherever you won't be?"

He frowns, like that's a tough problem to figure out, and you shake your head. "Don't worry; I'm not gonna be all up in your business much longer--and I wasn't planning on leaving without a goodbye kiss, either."

That just about gets you a right to the jaw; you can see his muscles jump, and you can't help laughing at that, though you keep it quiet; no need to wake up the whole place. "You really don't like sharing, do you?"

"That's not--" he starts. "What, you think you're the only guy Dean's ever hooked up with?"

"He know you hang around outside, give 'em all the 'treat my baby right' talk the morning after? You _do_ know he's all grown up, right?"

"He deserves someone who's gonna stick around," he says, and suddenly the puzzle pieces shift again, clicking into place differently than you'd expected, and you're still not certain what you're thinking can be right, but yeah, it makes sense. Except isn't _that_ interesting: the look on his face, he _doesn't_ get it, still.

You could leave it. Should leave it, probably. This might not be the sort of thing that gets better from being told, or being done. On the other hand, it's not your problem, now, is it? And what fun is life if you don't stir things up now and then?

"Then maybe it's time for both of you to sort that out, 'stead of spending all your time sticking each other's pigtails in inkwells," you say, and grin as you leave him standing there like a fish. Unfortunately, you don't have a key, so you can't make him watch you stroll into the room where Dean's presumably sleeping. You settle for heading to find some coffee yourself--which may be a bit of a challenge, with nothing in your pockets but lint, but you think you can manage.

***

Dean isn't surprised when he comes back from gassing up the car and getting the oil changed and finds JD waiting for him outside, cheap black nylon duffel at his feet.

"You taking off?" he asks, and JD shrugs.

"Figured since you bought me dinner and all, I could at least say good-bye," he says, standing up and slinging the bag over his shoulder. "But yeah. There's a ton of shit in my head that needs figuring out and you've got your own thing here."

There's a lot Dean could say, but he settles for, "Watch your back."

JD takes a couple of steps before he turns around. "Tell Sam thanks for the clothes and that I said if he doesn't grab what he wants, he shouldn't be surprised when someone else does."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, because Sam's always had so much trouble doing exactly what he wants."

JD just throws him that borderline smirk and walks off. Dean watches until he's out of sight and doesn't even slam the door when he goes back into the room.

"You alone?" Sam asks, emerging from the bathroom in a towel and a cloud of steam.

"Yeah, JD took off," Dean says.

"Where's he going?"

"You're the psychic, not me."

One finger up. "You're... okay with that?" Sam asks, digging through his bag for clean clothes.

"What, you thought we were gonna adopt him or something?"

Sam shrugs. "I dunno. It seems... weird. He doesn't even know his name. How's he gonna get anywhere, no ID, no money..."

Dean coughs. "I gave him a card. Came across one this morning that said Josh Durham on it; it seemed like a sign." Sam actually laughs at that, and Dean grins. "Hey, we don't have room for a puppy, but that's no reason to send him away into the cold cruel world _all_ alone."

Sam nods. "Good, I'm glad. He... wasn't a bad guy. Though I gotta admit, I'm curious how he ended up where we found him."

"Not as curious as he is, I'll bet."

Sam pulls on his clothes, rubs the towel over his head, and looks around the room. "You ready to hit the road?"

"Waiting on you, dude."

Sam flips him off again. "I'm not the one who had to be pried out of bed this morning."

Dean grins as he checks one last time for stray belongings before letting the door close behind them. "Jealous, Sammy? Who knows, maybe we'll run into him again, you can get your chance."

He waits for Sam's comeback, but Sam folds himself into the passenger seat quietly, rolling down the window and looking out even before the car starts moving.

***  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://aproposofnothin.livejournal.com/profile)[**aproposofnothin**](http://aproposofnothin.livejournal.com/), [](http://cardamom-23.livejournal.com/profile)[**cardamom_23**](http://cardamom-23.livejournal.com/), [](http://darkseaglass.livejournal.com/profile)[**darkseaglass**](http://darkseaglass.livejournal.com/), and [](http://liz-w.livejournal.com/profile)[**liz_w**](http://liz-w.livejournal.com/) for reading and beta duties.
> 
> Sam and Dean and the rest of the crew belong to Mr. Kripke and the WB/CW/whoever. JD (and all his memories) belong to Mutant Enemy and whatever corporate entities take their piece of the pie these days. No copyright infringement is intended and we're certainly not making any money off this. Title and lyrics from the Grateful Dead song, _Black-Throated Wind_. Words by John Perry Barlow; music by Bob Weir. Copyright Ice Nine Publishing. Absolutely no infringement intended there; it just fit too well to pass up.
> 
> Annotated lyrics to _Black-Throated Wind_ can be found [**here**](http://arts.ucsc.edu/gdead/agdl/btwi.html)
> 
> Also! Podfic performed by [](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/profile)[**chemm80**](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/) available here:  
>  http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/black-throated-wind  
> http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/black-throated-wind-audiobook


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